


The End of an Era

by Socially-ineptnerd (IAmTheRainbowSheep)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blink And You Miss It Slash, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Emotional Sherlock, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Feelings Realization, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt Sherlock, John is a Bit Not Good, Mentioned Mary Morstan, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft To The Rescue, Paternal Lestrade, Paternal Mycroft, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock-centric, bad timing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-11 00:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10451154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmTheRainbowSheep/pseuds/Socially-ineptnerd
Summary: After marrying, John visits and sees that Sherlock's eyes are red-rimmed, comes to the wrong conclusions and longs to lash out to relieve his pent-up frustration. When Sherlock notices, he tries to reach out, but with both of them at the end of their rope, a disaster is what follows. Harsh words come from John and he watches as every barrier Sherlock has slams back up before his eyes. He runs, unable to deal with the consequences of his actions. It's then that Sherlock falls apart, turning to drugs once more as he finds that he can't function, leaving Mycroft to pick up the shattered pieces.“Do you know what I went through, trying to put my life back together when you disappeared all of a sudden? What I felt, seeing you die?”Sherlock's heart was racing as he stared at John, mind going too fast as he tried to think of some way to make this better, to fix it and make it all stop. “John, maybe you should know that-” Sherlock didn't have a happy and fun vacation for two years. Maybe John should know that while he was suffering through depression and grief, Sherlock suffered through torture and pain with only the thought of returning home to John keeping him sane during long hours of nothing but white-hot agony.





	1. The Break Is Loud

****Sherlock sighed, tired to the bone, wondering if perhaps he should actually get some sleep instead of just wandering throughout the rooms of the flat like a ghost. Instead, he picked up his violin, playing out some melodies he'd composed during the last few weeks. He hadn't seen John since his wedding, 4 weeks and counting now. It came as a bit of a surprise for Sherlock, the sudden loneliness now that John had moved out and had no intention of returning. He shook his head, simply playing until he felt like he'd drop his violin from the heaviness in his limbs.

He hardly made it to the bedroom before he fell asleep, wrapped up in a cocoon of bitter regret and deep longing, eyes shutting to drag him into a different universe where everything didn't fall apart and he didn't lose John like he did in the cruel one he lived in.

\--- **\---** \---

A few days later, John stood outside the familiar flat, squaring his shoulders. It wasn't that he was reluctant to go in, but... he feared that things were different now. He himself had told Sherlock not to worry that things would change, but it did, and it's been a while since they saw each other. Feeling a bit like a crappy friend for disappearing for a month, he let himself into the flat, walking up stairs he'd walked on a thousand times before.

It was like walking through a place you'd seen in a dream, distant but oh so familiar in a way that boggled the mind. As he opened the door, he saw Sherlock standing, facing the window. Even just looking at his back, John knew he'd lost weight, his bony shoulders showing from beneath a loose-fitting shirt. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock, who was drifting in his mind, slowly turned to face the source of the voice, half afraid it was just a trick of his mind. Afraid that if he turned around and saw nothing, he'd crumble to dust and not be made whole again. This was so much worse than when he'd hallucinated John's voice during the harsh years he spent trying to dismantle Moriarty's network. At least then, he had the hope of being able to come home to John to keep him going. Now it felt like a cruel taunt by his mind, dangling what he couldn't have in front of him,

Swallowing, he looked and found John there, dressed in a dark coat over a plain white shirt. “John?” he asked, voice hesitant, and he suddenly realized how dry his throat was, how cracked his voice came out to be. He quickly set about to drink water, because if John was here, that meant conversation, and he had to be functional.

John looked around the flat, surprised it hadn't been exploded to bits during his absence. Lord knows he was the main source of Sherlock's impulse control. He noted that his chair was missing, a dark spot where it should have been. “My chair... where's my chair?” He took off his coat, placing it onto the sofa.

Sherlock merely kept on making tea, handing one cup to John before taking a seat. “It was in the way,” was his only response. He took in the sight of John. Dirty shoes, been running every morning, when the grass was still covered in dew and the ground was soft. Hair recently cut, differently styled, probably due to major life change-marriage. Aside for that, John had gained 5 pounds, and was softer, the hard edges of his body becoming less angular. He looked like a happy married man.

John sat down on the hard-backed chair, also staring at Sherlock. “Well, how are y-” he stopped abruptly, catching sight of Sherlock's red-rimmed eyes. “Sherlock, have you fallen back into bad habits already? What have you done to yourself?” He quickly came closer, trying to assess his medical condition, wanting to know if Sherlock was about to keel over and die.

Sherlock looked up, caught off guard, before his face blushed red against the otherwise pale skin. “Of course not,” he responded defensively. He hadn't been using, of course, as much as he wanted to, because John may come back at any time and he didn't want John to see him half-conscious and writhing on the floor. “Don't make such silly assumptions.”

He stood, grabbing his violin, trying to shield himself from the world with a cold and sharp melody that said what he couldn't voice.

John stood, “Sherlock, what did you take? Why didn't you say anything? I was a phone call away, you could have asked for help!” He didn't see the way Sherlock's face fell, the way Sherlock's eyes screamed _“No you're not, you're gone, and you're happy with someone else!”_ and he walked into Sherlock's line of sight, disappointed and upset. He'd been upset a lot lately, feeling like someone that lost his business and dog in one day, but he could never understand why. He had a wife and was going to have a child soon, there was absolutely no reason for him to be so miserable. But if he were to drop his mask, he was a storm simmering in a bottle, ready to release his tension at any unlucky soul.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, it was probably going to be him.

“Drop it, John,” Sherlock murmured, not wanting to talk about it anymore. He couldn't possibly admit that he hadn't been using, but had been giving into weaker and shameful human urges, like crying. John, who believed he was strong and invincible would never understand that he was just as breakable as everyone else. Sherlock just didn't expect that realizing he loved John in the middle of a best man speech at John's wedding would be the thing to destroy him.

Moriarty had won, after all.

“No, you don't get to do that!” John snapped back, his blood pumping through him, hands itching to just do something that even vaguely sated his need for action and adrenaline. “I get that goodbyes aren't that exciting or enjoyable, but you are better than this. One month. That's all it took for you to break, then? One bloody month alone and Sherlock Holmes caves in.”

Sherlock's eyes were steely, glaring into John's. An unstoppable force and an immovable object. “Leave it be, John.”

With a sigh, John rolled his eyes and turned away, unable to believe the nerve of Sherlock Holmes. “I can't believe you,” he muttered, hands flexing as he walked around the flat. “Have you eaten at all today? Or are you just waiting to pass out before you do?” He made his way to the kitchen, pulling out some instant noodles and putting on some water to boil. It was simple, cheap, and even if it tasted like a cry for help, it was better than not eating.

Sherlock glided into the kitchen, eyes scanning over the entire flat as if he'd just seen it. It was surprisingly clean, almost... bare. Which probably had to do with the fact that Sherlock's developed a weird habit of cleaning every little thing up, trying to assert control over the environment because he had no control over anything else in his life at the moment. He licked his lips, leaning against the door frame. “How have you been?”

John looked up for a second, before he continued making the noodles. “Hmm, fine, yeah. Been working at the surgery again, and Mary's been confirmed pregnant.” He deliberately kept his thoughts about how boring and miserable his life was now out of his response, tailoring it to be bland instead. It was hard to admit to someone that you were miserable in a marriage when you're just a month into it. “What about you?”

Sherlock looked up as if surprised to be asked, before he thought about a good response, gears turning around in his head. “I'm... good. I've been well, thank you.”

“Any good cases lately?”

There was a pregnant pause then, and Sherlock shook his head. “No. No, I've been taking a bit of a break from cases recently. Been busy doing other things-” like avoiding the outside world to help keep from giving in to the urge to shoot drugs into his body until he was so drugged he couldn't feel a damn thing anymore “- and there hasn't been very many crimes recently. I'm half-tempted to issue a formal request to all criminals to please commit an interesting chain of murders.”

John huffed a laugh. “Of course you would. Only you would want for there to be a chain of murders.”

Sherlock shrugged, “it keeps life from getting too boring.” He looked down at the bowl of instant soup being placed on the table, and with a pointed look from John, he took a seat, picking up the fork. He ate in silence, and John watched for a second, the tension being pushed back again. He set about fixing the dishes in the sink, and then turned to Sherlock, eyes softening.

He felt like destroying his own life when he felt his chest ache with everything he couldn't have now that he realized he'd made the wrong choice.

Sherlock, feeling John's intense stare, looked up, meeting his gaze readily. “Are you alright, John? You seem... upset,” he clambered for words, trying to figure out how to make John feel better. If only his mind would be clearer... Damn sleep deprivation. “What's wrong? Is it something to do with your job? The tension is written all over your body, stress lines all over your face, and if I didn't know any better I'd say you were experiencing some type of regret-”

John's face turned into a deep shade of red as he slammed his fist against the table, leaning forward, all of the tension brought to the surface now that the thin and flimsy wall he'd put up had been prodded at, anger rushing forward. “Shut up, Sherlock, shut up!” He felt like he wasn't there in the room, like he was helpless to help the sharp and harsh words that flew from his mouth like venom. “You don't get to deduce me like that. You can't just try to read me like I'm a bloody book, goddamn you, I've spent years dealing with it, but I'm done with being analyzed like a damn science experiment! Maybe, if you'd just stayed _alive_ I won't be this stressed, maybe if you didn't fake your own death, I won't be this stressed! You are a liar, a manipulative psychopath that gets off on seeing people in pain!”

John kept going, unable to stop now, pacing side to side but keeping his distance from Sherlock. “Do you know what I went through, trying to put my life back together when you disappeared all of a sudden? What I felt, seeing you die?”

Sherlock's heart was racing as he stared at John, mind going too fast as he tried to think of some way to make this better, to fix it and make it all _stop_. “John, maybe you should know that-” Sherlock didn't have a happy and fun vacation for two years. Maybe John should know that while he was suffering through depression and grief, Sherlock suffered through torture and pain with only the thought of returning home to John keeping him sane during long hours of nothing but white-hot agony. _It's been hard on me too, dammit._

“No, no I don't want to hear your excuses!” John cut him off, nearly seeing red, anger growing into rage. “I hate you. I hate you for the pain you put me through, and for all of the things you've done, and I wish I'd never met you. Sally Donovan was right. I should have stayed away from you. Because maybe then, I won't be feeling like utter shite right now.” _Because Sherlock I just realized I married the wrong person, and I want out, I want to come home, but I can't stop talking and please help me, I want to come home._

“I hate you, you freak.” _I hate you because I love you but it's too late now and I hate you because I can't have you._

He stopped pacing then, and all of his words-untrue words he'd said only to hurt Sherlock and hide the love that tore John up inside every night he spent away from Sherlock- echoed back at him, with the silence only being broken by the cars rushing outside. He didn't mean it. He'd said it all because anger was easier than hurt and sadness and regret, but then he looked up at Sherlock and realized that whether or not he meant it didn't matter.

He saw as every barrier Sherlock had ever had before he met John rose up, barriers that he'd slowly let down as he grew to trust John, and John watched with a heavy feeling in his chest as the blank mask Sherlock reserved for anyone that wasn't John looked him in the face. It was just a second before he'd blanked his features, but it wasn't so fast that John didn't catch the pain, the hurt, the sadness, all of the vulnerabilities inside of Sherlock unintentionally laid bare to John for just a split second as Sherlock's defenses crumbled and allowed him to see the man behind the machine.

His tongue tasted as if he'd eaten an ashtray.

Sherlock turned his eyes away, his heart heavy and some painful feeling spreading through his sternum and down his arms. _Detach, detach, control, control, control, oh god stay in control_ , he begged himself silently. _Emotions. Chemical defects, nothing but a bunch of chemicals and neurons firing off in the brain. Depression, tied to reduction in monoamines, specifically serotonin and epinephrine, most likely situational._

Sherlock's eyes filled with water, and for one terrifying second, he feared that the tears that formed in his eyes would fall and continue like a tsunami down his face, feared it so much that he didn't so much as blink, knowing that if he did, the dam would break.

He wasn't a psychopath, wasn't incapable of feeling, wasn't the machine that John thought him to be. He wanted to rip down everything on the walls and scream like a wounded animal as he trashed the flat. He wanted to break down and fall to his knees as he sobbed out the pain, curl into himself as he tried to pull the shattered shards of himself back together. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted-

All he could do was do what he usually did and put up a cold, unfeeling mask to try and make himself believe he didn't actually care and that nothing people said could hurt him. He raised his chin and straightened his back, before he began rattling off the unpleasant things he'd learned about John. He spat John's life back at him, from the way his father was an alcoholic, the way he'd envied Harry growing up, to the way that he was constantly in debt while he was in university, because he developed a gambling habit.

Sherlock threw back the things he'd ever learned about John, all his words laced with ice and bitterness as he worked on demeaning and destroying the one he loved so he could just burn the damn bridge already. He stopped finally, after a minute of tearing John apart, turning and gliding to the window, picking up his violin as he realized he couldn't go any further. He didn't turn back around, waiting for the footsteps to leave.

John stood still as a statue as Sherlock tried to insult him, failing because he never actually touched the topics that John knew Sherlock knew would hurt him the most. It was painful, Sherlock's generosity, and it made John see how much Sherlock had grown these past few years. He watched Sherlock retreat, staring at the back of Sherlock's burgundy robe. He wanted to apologize, but his mouth still tasted like acid from when it had betrayed him.

His feet moved before he gave them permission to, leading him out the door, each step feeling like they were heading towards a guillotine. He walked down the steps for what would likely be the last time, the haunting lament of Sherlock's sorrow and woes following him with every single step he took. His eyes burned, he wanted to sit on the bottom of the steps and break down, but he couldn't. After what he'd done, he had no right to go back and mumble out apologies that weren't enough, would never be enough to make up for what he'd said.

He found himself on the street, with the violin music suddenly becoming nothing as the sharp breeze took its place in whistling in his ear. His hands were shaking, he realized belatedly, and he could only stand there for a good few minutes, trying to calm down the spiders with needle-sharp legs that crawled through his insides. The door to 221B rested behind him, taunting him as it called him back, but he couldn't. A stronger man, with courage and nerves of steel may have been able to, but not John. After all the horrible things he'd said to Sherlock, he didn't fucking deserve to walk back up those familiar stairs and taint the sacred place with his presence.

That was his home and he'd lost it because of his own thoughtless actions. He didn't turn back after that thought, running and escaping like he always did, unable to cope until there was a bottle of whiskey in his hands and a sharp burn in his throat as he sat in a room littered with empty bottles and broken glass. He didn't even feel the chill of the wind against his arms as he ran towards alcoholism.

Sherlock watched as John went, walking to find his 7% solution to heartbreak and pain. He'd been abstaining from it for a long while, trying to be _good_ for once in his miserable life, but he should know better than that by now. He was just a man with _urges_ , one of which was to fill his stupid head with drugs when he became overwhelmed and confronted by his own humanity, his own emotional vulnerabilities.

He'd hardly left the flat recently, afraid he'd give into the itching _need_ if he so much as stepped outside of his house. John would be disappointed, he'd thought, and that was a Not Good thing. John didn't care anymore, though, so he found himself looking for a fix today. Simple cause and effect. John caring about Sherlock's health meant Sherlock caring Sherlock's health.

He found Billy Wiggins rather fast, carefully avoiding his brother's surveillance, not wanting his session to end before it had even started. The drugs shot through his entire body like fireworks, and he was just barely lucid enough to make it home with enough to drug a cow. Stumbling, he fell beside the couch, burying his face into the sofa as his eyes burned and stung, the euphoria burning away as he saw John's coat he must have accidentally left behind.

If one were to walk into the room, and saw Sherlock's face, they would see him without his mask on, and see William the pirate, the scared and sad little boy that hid behind Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. They would see the hurt and exhaustion beneath the dark circles of his eyes, the tearful quiver of his bottom lip as he refrained from reaching out for help. They would see all the things he was too afraid to say, all the feelings he refused to acknowledge he felt, years' worth of silent tears that formed tracks down his face.

All the false arrogance he used to hide his feelings of inferiority was gone, replaced instead by self-loathing, and the man most people considered vain crumbled like dust as a wet spot grew on the couch.

He could hear Mycroft in his head, speaking to him like he had when Sherlock was just in primary school, crying about some bully or another that called him a freak. He remembered that Mycroft who was all-powerful and all-knowing to Sherlock's young mind, had simply held him close. _“Caring is not an advantage, brother mine,”_ he'd said, and many years later, once Sherlock had buried himself under a thick layer of ice and distance, Mycroft grew to regret his words, wishing he'd been more careful and precise as he lost his baby brother to the shadows.

“Oh, Christ,” he breathed between his gasps, not sure if it was a prayer or an expletive. He cried with his entire body, feeling the dull hollowness spread through his veins like cancer, ripping through his chest and leaving him with his insides clawed into ribbons.

Caring isn't an advantage.

Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.

Detach.

“Oh, god, I can't do it.” His breaths were ragged, the agonizing _throb_ in his body too much to bear, too much to handle. He was drowning and suffocating, ripping apart and shattering all at once, feeling as if he were imploding and soon, there would be nothing left of him.

The carpet beneath his knees did nothing, there would be bruises later on.

He heard a siren quickly approaching, but his mind had gone out too deep and he couldn't retrieve enough of it to do much other than curl into himself and sob as he heard a familiar voice speaking to him. _When had he come into the flat?_

“Oh, brother mine, what have you done to yourself now?”

_End of an era, indeed._

 

 


	2. But We Don't Let Go

It didn't take John long- just a day- before his guilt refused to allow him to sit in a house with his wife while his best friend was all alone in an empty flat, with nothing but echoes of John's cruel words to taunt him. He sighed, squaring his shoulders as he placed on his coat- he'd left the other one in 221B, apparently- and left to set out for the flat that he'd shared with Sherlock for years. He tried to hail down several cabs, all of which ignored him, until a sleek black car pulled up, the door opening, and he rolled his eyes, before he jumped into it without really thinking.

“Why can't Mycroft just come talk to me when he has something to say? I have a phone, and I'm sure he can access every phone in Britain. I have somewhere to be,” John mumbled, frustrated that he wouldn't be able to see Sherlock yet. He'd already waited long enough, and he hoped that he could fix what he'd done in time. He sat silently the rest of the ride, nothing but his guilt to keep him company. His words kept bouncing around in his mind, and his heart clenched as he tried to think of a way to make it all better.

The car stopped in front of a house which was... unusual for Mycroft. Two large guards came to guide John into a living room, where the British Government glided in after making him wait after 10 minutes. “Doctor Watson,” he greeted, a forced polite smile on his face, but John could see the anger shining in his eyes.

“Where's Sherlock?” John asked immediately, not wanting to dance around the subject today. Mycroft's head tilted up slightly, and the smile fell from his face, his eyes turning steely.

The silence stretched on for a few tense seconds. “I think that the better question for now is where is your wife?” John's eyes narrowed, confused as his heart began thudding against his chest in anticipation. Something was wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. “Mrs. Watson. Mary Morstan. It was clever, very clever, in fact, that even I didn't think anything of her.”

John swallowed once. Twice. “What are-” he coughed to clear his throat, then continued. “What are you saying? What are you trying to say about Mary?” He could feel it then, the tides of worry and simmering regret and denial lapping around his knees, threatening to throw him off balance and send him down to the bottom of the ocean where the light couldn't reach.

Mycroft offered a sympathetic look with his eyes, but it was so quickly replaced by his aloof mask that John didn't know if it had ever been there. “See for yourself.” He handed John a file and a hard drive with AGRA written on the top of it. Hands shaking, he flipped open the file, looking at Mary's- Rosamund's- file, the images of dead bodies burning into his retinas. He couldn't breathe. Children! And old helpless women! Mary had killed-

“She's a gun for hire, worked in a freelance group of assassins that would work for those who needed help in disposing of people they considered a threat. The only reason I am telling you is because she seems to have gotten involved with Moriarty some time ago, and I want to make sure he is truly dead. The one person he would bother going after is my brother, after all.” Mycroft fiddled with the pen on the table near him, hand skimming over his knee as if to keep himself calm while in John's presence.

“Moriarty? She... oh god.” John shut his eyes, covering his face with his hand, feeling like the entire world was closing in. “She's working at the surgery today.” He looked up, worrying his lip between his teeth. It was always like this, wasn't it? Every time he thought he loved someone, he'd have them ripped from his life and he'd be left with nothing but a hopeless wish that things were different. “How?”

_How did things go this badly? How did I fall in love with an assassin? How did I never see the signs that she may have been lying to me?_

_How did I ever dare to replace Sherlock with her?_

Mycroft merely looked at him blankly, uncaring about the anger and hate and fear and regret that coursed through John's body like acid burning through his veins. “Sherlock is currently with Gregory Lestrade, as he usually is during... times like this.” John nodded, eyebrows furrowed at that. Greg and Sherlock hadn't really seemed all that chummy when he'd seen then together. Standing, he looked at Mycroft, who narrowed his eyes at him like a scientist with a scalpel getting ready to begin dissecting him.

“John, I should warn you he is not in a good place right now. He is currently coming down from a high and in a few hours, the pain will spike and he'll be nearly incoherent.” John forced himself to swallow at the information, and Mycroft stood as well, inching closer. “If you hurt him, I assure you that I will introduce you to a level of pain beyond what you could have ever imagined. He is vulnerable, broken, and hurt and it's all because of you. I told you before to watch over him, and instead you aimed for every weak spot you knew existed simply because he trusted you enough to see them and you completely _wrecked_ him.” He spoke airily, with a tone of professional aloofness, but John could see the rage festering in his eyes.

Mycroft stopped directly in front of John, and if looks could kill, John would have dropped dead three times over. “Fix what you'd done, John Watson.” The _or else_ went without saying, and John nodded jerkily, before he was being led out to the car by two faceless guards in matching bland uniforms. As John sat in the car, he began to wonder if he could actually do anything to fix what he'd done.

_I'll be there soon, Sherlock. Just wait a little longer._

 


	3. Something Is Coming

The pain was something that nobody could ever get used to, no matter how many times they experienced it. Sherlock groaned, burying his face in the pillow, covered in a thick sheen of sweat as his stomach kept turning and cramping. Greg sat beside him, placing a hand on his head, concern written all over his face as he watched the younger man stuck in what looked like agony. He sighed, wishing he could do more than sit there being a useless lump. “Come on, Sherlock, you need to drink some water,” he said softly, so as to not worsen his headache even more.

Sherlock groaned, shaking his head, his limbs shaking without his consent. “I'm dying,” he said, voice muffled into the pillow, but Greg still caught it. He swallowed down the ache that settled in his chest and spread to his throat, suffocating him with a rush of concern and sadness.

“Not today.” He helped Sherlock sit up, arm wrapping around the man who was far too thin. The last time he'd been this thin was... Greg didn't even want to think about those horrible and dark times they shared, but his mind forced him to remember anyway.

Sherlock was very young, and Greg was still a rookie cop who'd found him in one of the drug houses that the cops were raiding that day. Greg was nervous, filled with sadness about how these people could throw their lives away in such a way, when he saw him. It was just a mess of dark hair in the corner of the room, barely visibly beneath the piles of upturned furniture, but when Greg managed to remove all the barriers, he'd found that Sherlock was hardly breathing. He pulled Sherlock into his arms- who at the time was just a nameless and lost young man dying on the floor of a desolate drug den- and rushed him into the hospital, where the British Government came to greet him.

After that, he'd just taken a liking to the boy, offering his spare room whenever he needed to find somewhere to crash, and often running whenever he had the slightest hint that Sherlock might be in need of help. He'd helped Sherlock recover from his drug use, and every time that he relapsed, he knew that Greg would be there to help him without judgment or disappointment. Until a chain of events left Sherlock cold and detached, too afraid to love or care anymore, and even though Greg ached at the knowledge that Sherlock shut him out as well, he accepted it so long as he didn't fall back on old habits.

“They're right you know,” Sherlock said suddenly after Greg had helped him drink, his arms too shaky to hold the bottle of water without spilling it all over the bed and himself. Greg gave a noncommittal grunt as he put the water on the bedside table, not sure what Sherlock was talking about. “Donovan, Anderson, everyone else. They're right about me. I'm just a-”

“No,” Greg interjected quickly, not wanting to hear that horrible _F_ word coming from Sherlock's lips right now. Not like this. “No they're not. Those bloody tossers have no fucking idea what or who you are, but I know you. I have known you, and I know that you're a damn good person underneath that mask of yours.” He knew this was coming, it always came, the emotional meltdowns that Sherlock would either deny or apologize for later on. The hurt that would bleed right through now that his defenses were down, and Greg would see exactly how badly the world had hurt Sherlock to make him so cold and so bitter.

“You can't know that,” came the weak reply, and Sherlock shut his eyes to try and keep the burning in his eyes to become something more as he took a shuddering breath. His chest felt tight, as if someone had taken a rubber band and started wrapping it around his chest, tighter and tighter, until he felt like he might explode. “You cannot possibly know that for certain. They are right, the definition of a freak is a person who refuses to conform to societal standards or the social norm, which I think is safe to say is exactly what I do, and therefore that is exactly what I am.”

Greg shook his head, refusing to believe it for a second. “Yeah, well. People who are ahead of their time aren't exactly supposed to fit into society. Great minds often find themselves treated like misfits because everyone around them can't keep up with the pace they go. That's how it works, and that doesn't make you a bad person or a _freak_ and I don't wanna sit here and listen to you babble out nonsense like that, Sherlock. I won't have it.”

Sherlock scoffed, opening his eyes and narrowing them at Greg. “You didn't care when Donovan did it.” His tone was accusatory, the betrayal and hurt leaking into his eyes, and Greg nodded, trying to rationalize his guilt away.

“I did care, you geezer, but I had to keep my professionalism and maintain a reputation of being unbiased for me to be able to be respected as a man of the law. Plus,” he said as he ran a hand down his jaw. “She's gone now, isn't she? After all that had happened with the Fall and all the drama, she couldn't muster up the nerve to stay. Fled quickly after you... jumped.”

Sherlock grunted, a pang of pain shooting through his stomach, and he doubled over, feeling Greg pulling him so that he was curled against the older man's side. If he were not in so much pain and was clearly thinking, he would have pushed him away, claiming that he had no need of affection. Say that he was no longer a fragile child that had to be held at every stumble and coddled every time he tripped over his shoelaces. However, in a moment of weakness, he also allowed himself to hug the older man back, craving the warmth and stability those arms offered when he was sinking into the pits of his own soul, unable to make it back up without assistance.

He swallowed, suddenly feeling like he had to say something, a piece of information that he'd hidden for too long from Greg and John, only telling Mrs. Hudson after she'd promised to keep silent. “I have to tell you something,” he said, shifting so he could face Greg, looking him into the eyes. “About the fall.”

Greg looked him in the eye, slightly worried about the way Sherlock's tone had become filled with anxiety and desperation, but nodded all the same. “Alright, what is it?”

“Moriarty, he... threatened to burn my heart out. That's why I jumped, it wasn't my plan to, but if I didn't he had three snipers fixed on three people. Three people that I cared the most about.” He searched Greg's face for understanding, frowning in frustration as he saw that Greg was still as confused as before. “God, do I have to spell it out for you? It was you, John, and Mrs. Hudson. I jumped because if I didn't, you three would have died, and I would have never been able to live with myself. I didn't intend to cause any of you pain or grief, but it was all unavoidable if I wanted you alive.” He broke off into a sad smile, closing his eyes as he slumped against Greg tiredly, finally allowing himself to accept comfort after these years of shutting himself away. “I wish I could have done better, but I tried my best to do what was good and kind in a very _wrong_ situation. I’m not a sadistic machine like most people seem to think.”

It felt as if Greg's world had suddenly shifted, leaving him with a horrible sense of something akin to vertigo as he stared at Sherlock's prone form, not knowing what to say or do with the information. Sherlock did care about him. Sherlock  _did_ care. Sherlock _loved_ them enough to... jump for them and go through all the pain he did. He felt a tear slide down his face at the ache in his chest, wondering why Sherlock chose _this_ moment to tell him. He placed a soft kiss on the head of the boy he thought of as a son, shutting his eyes. “It's going to be okay, Sherlock,” he promised softly, vowing that he wouldn't let anyone- including Sherlock himself- hurt him anymore. He'd protect Sherlock, and he would destroy himself to put Sherlock back together, to put the spark of life back in the lifeless shades of gray in his eyes when they should have been the color of grass in the spring. “We’ll get through this. You’re a good kid, and I always believed it, always will. A right git at times, but god help me, you’re a son to me. I’ll always be here if you need me.”

Unconditional love. Agape. A strong bond, characterized by loyalty and a nonsexual affection. The highest level of love known to humanity- the selfless love, a love that is passionately interested in the well-being and health of another, asking for nothing in return. The love that transcends all problematic circumstances.

Sherlock heard his inner demons say  _don’t. Don’t you do that. I am not the type of person that is made to be loved. I am very damaged, and I am never good for anyone, especially people like you who love with your entire being. I am a curse for people to love, but sometimes, I allow myself to be selfish, and I let people in just so I can feel their warmth for a moment, feel their light tickling my skin, but I have a bad habit of destroying everything I touch. Run, run as far as you can because the darkness inside of me will reach for your light and crush it like it was never there. Run and forget I ever existed for your own safety, I beg you. Don’t love someone as broken as me because you’ll cut yourself open while trying to put my shattered soul back together again._

[Please don’t let me go, I’ve lost myself somewhere in the darkness and I can’t find my way back to the light.]

He could hear the faint echo from the past, from when he’d first met Greg as a youth straying from the good path, _don’t let this world turn you bitter and cold. Don’t let this world tell you who to be if you’re not hurting anybody. Wear your pain as armor and not as shackles._

Sherlock merely burrowed closer to him, a lump in his throat at the sentiment. A few stray tears fell from his eyes, and he swallowed down the sob that wanted to force its way from his throat. He wasn’t sure if it was from joy or pain, but the kindness just _hurt_ so much that it felt like putting a burnt hand in a vat of rubbing alcohol. “Thank you,” he said, voice tight and raw with emotions that he didn’t exactly sign up for, but he felt a little less cold inside and he counted that as a good thing.

 


	4. But I'll Stay Close

John arrived after horrible traffic kept him sitting in the car feeling like he might suffocate inside of an air-conditioned car, which would be quite embarrassing because it was June, not even cold enough to say that he suffered an asthma attack. When he made it to 221B, he forced himself to take a breath after staring at the golden numbers, before he let himself in. The walls seemed to scream at him to leave, but he forced every last bit of Captain Watson forward and walked up the steps, entering the living room.

There were no blood splatters on the walls, or a dead body, which John took as a good sign. There were also some thuds coming from Sherlock's room, and he was briefly concerned there was a robber but these just sounded like someone having a giant tantrum. That's when he heard the raised voices, one was obviously Sherlock's and the other was Greg's. He ran forward, stopping at the scene in front of him.

Sherlock had been caught up in throwing everything he could get a hold of, agitation written plainly on his face, looking like a small child that had just lost his comfort blanket and needed to let all the confusion and fear out because he couldn't find the words to express the complex emotions that had him wrapped up in a frenzy.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, and Sherlock actually _froze_ , and John watched in morbid fascination as each muscle in his body stiffened up as he actually stopped breathing just at John's voice. “I'm sorry. I didn't- I didn't mean any of what I'd said, and I know that sorry isn't good enough, but-”

“Jim,” Sherlock said, looking at John with wide but unseeing eyes. “This was what you’d planned, isn’t it? I thought I was flying until I crashed to the ground, and it was only then that I realized that he was the final problem after all. The final piece in the puzzle to burn out my heart was him.”

Greg looked up at John with pursed lips, unimpressed with him, but also thinking he at least deserved the explanation of “he's been hallucinating Moriarty on and off since he woke up 15 minutes ago, keeps calling his name, talking to him.”

John nodded, moving closer, resting a hand on Sherlock's forehead, feeling it burn against his skin. Too hot. Definitely not good. He clenched his hand into a fist, the skin pulled taut over his knuckles, turning white with how hard he buried his nails into his palms, leaving crescent-shaped indentations in his hand.

“He doesn't need you anymore, Sherlock,” Sherlock said, voice adopting the familiar lilt that John had grown to hate. Moriarty. Of all people, Sherlock had to be hallucinating fucking Moriarty. “Johnny boy's gotten on with his boring ordinary life like the stupid soldier I told you he is. Didn't I tell you before that in the end it'll only be you and me? Just us, _forever_?”

“No,” John said, shaking his head as tears formed in his eyes, watching as Sherlock spoke to the hallucination of the man that tore them apart. This time he didn't know if Sherlock would come back to him after what he'd done. Greg looked at him for a second, offering a sympathetic smile before patting him on the back and leaving without a word. “Not alone anymore, Sherlock, I'm here. I'm not going to leave you again.” His words fell on deaf ears, and Sherlock kept going.

Sherlock shook his head at Jim, who stood in front of him wearing the suit he usually wore. Some strong emotion rippled through him, but it went too fast for him to be able to name it. “You promised to burn my heart out, didn't you? Well I suppose that you could count this as one point for you, rendering us at a tie. One to one. I spent two years dismantling your criminal web, fighting to survive every day, and I succeeded in destroying Jim Moriarty like I'd promised you on that rooftop. Then I came home to... John and Mary Watson, and you succeeded in burning the heart out of me like you'd promised from the very beginning. Very clever indeed.”

He let out a breath, and John could feel his soul bleeding out from inside of him, and his stomach dropped to the ground. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't listen to this. He couldn't handle knowing the truth because the truth was cruel and didn't leave any space for him to breathe. He sunk into the chair near the door, forcing himself to listen. He didn't deserve the bliss of ignorance, so he forced himself to sit there with his back ramrod straight, hardly breathing. 

“You're clever,” Sherlock continued to Moriarty, who was smiling at him, flattered at the compliment. “You made me think I had won, made me think that the game was over once I finished ripping the last strands of your influence. Then once I was comfortable, once I thought I was safe from your control, you placed your last card on the table. You made me spend two years clawing my way through hell for John's life, only to come home to find out that he's left of his own accord.” He smiled in what might have been appreciation of the dead man's genius, but the pain shined clearly in his eyes like moonlight glinting off a dagger. “The final trick up your sleeve that even I hadn't predicted or thought to be even remotely plausible.”

John stared at the wall, a haunted look of a broken soldier in his eyes as he breathed deeply, incapable of doing much more than existing but _god did it hurt to exist in that moment_ as all of his mistakes were laid in front of him so clearly that he wondered how he could have missed it.

Moriarty hadn't burned Sherlock out. Moriarty didn't hurt Sherlock. John did. John managed to take Sherlock's heart and shatter it with a careless touch because he hadn't even known he _had_ it in his hands. Somehow John succeeded in doing what Moriarty could only dream of achieving, and as he stared at Sherlock who continued to talk to the walls, he wondered why it took him so long to realize that he was the villain after all.

_What have you let me do to you?_

“Sherlock,” he called him again, hoping that he could see just a sliver of the cold apathy that Sherlock usually used so he could remind himself that Sherlock wasn't always this openly broken. “Come on, now. Relax, Sherlock. Shit!” He hurried over as Sherlock nearly fell to his knees, arms wrapping around his middle, eyes shut. Steering Sherlock onto the bed, he tried to keep him calm as he writhed on the sheets. “It's okay. It's okay, you'll be okay.”

Sherlock's eyes slid open, looking up at John with confused eyes. “John?” he asked, clearly wondering if he was real or just a figment of his delirious mind.

“I'm here,” John assured as he placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead. “I’m here for you today, Sherlock. I’m not leaving you again. Just rest for now, we could talk later.” Sherlock seemed to accept that as a good answer, shutting his eyes as chills rippled down his spine, letting John sit beside him, offering comfort through the warmth of his body, not knowing what else to do but to sit there and run his fingers through Sherlock's curls. There was no point in talking when Sherlock was so clearly out of it. He'd have to bite down his guilt and take care of Sherlock while he was recovering from the relapse that _John_ had caused. It was going to be a long few days.

Sherlock faintly registered that someone was talking again, but the cloud of numbness was so alluring he gave in and refused to come back down. He flew high above the world, and he couldn’t land. He’d fall. He’d plummet to the ground like a meteoroid, burning himself into dust as he fell and create a crater in the world he didn’t belong in. It was simple science. So he would stay engulfed by the hazy cloud and remain an asteroid, 1.2 to 2.2 Astronomical Units away from humanity to keep both himself and humanity intact.

“Dammit!” John swore, picking up the phone to call Mycroft as he used his spare hand to wipe the sweat off of Sherlock’s forehead with a cool cloth. “His fever is really high, he’s out of it and only semi-conscious, and he’s having uncontrollable tremors. I’m a bit worried he’ll start convulsing from his fever, and I’m reluctant to give him anything for the fever because I have no idea what the hell he’s taken.”

There was a beat of silence from the other end, then a sigh of a weary man. “I'll be there shortly.” The line cut off abruptly, and John all but threw the phone onto the nightstand, trying to keep Sherlock's fever down while also trying to keep his composure while Sherlock broke down as his drug-addled mind forced him to _feel_ everything he'd removed himself from.

“I can't, I can't do it,” he kept mumbling to himself, words spilling from his lips even if he wasn't aware that he was speaking at all. Sometimes he'd gain a modicum of awareness and turn to John with pleading eyes, and his eyes would say everything that he couldn't give voice to, and John's heart stutter to a halt for a second. He didn't have any idea what it was exactly that Sherlock was asking for, but _by God_ did John want to give it to him.

“You're going to be alright, love,” John said, the pet name leaving his lips before he'd properly thought it through. “Just relax.” That was really shitty advice. Relaxing won't make a stab wound go away, and neither would it help you while you suffer through drug withdrawal. He waited, unsure of how to deal with Sherlock while he was obviously not in the right state of mind, not cool and calculated like John knew him to be. It felt like a nightmare that he couldn't wake from, as he waited for a sign that would tell him that come morning they'd both be okay.

It didn't take Mycroft long to arrive, and John briefly wondered if he came in a police car or a chopper to make it possible that he go from point A to point B in under 20 minutes when it would have taken a normal civilian an hour. He immediately placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead, feeling for a temperature, worrying on his bottom lip.

“He keeps talking to or about Moriarty,” John told him, standing behind him as he inspected his younger brother. “Said a lot of things about him. He said I was the final piece in Moriarty burning his heart out. That he spent two years in hell for my life. Do you-” he coughed, clearing his throat as he continued on in an even and casual tone. “Do you know why? Why he'd say that?” He knew that even if his tone was purely casual, as if he were just asking about the latest football game, Mycroft could see the confusion swirling in his eyes. He needed someone to confirm or deny his biggest fears that gurgled beneath him, preparing to send him careening off the edge with a single touch.

“I do,” Mycroft replied, voice soft as the light coming from a candle, gentler than John was used to hearing him. “Jim Moriarty promised to burn his heart out, as I'm sure you heard in the pool when he had a bomb strapped to you. Moriarty quickly figured out who the three people he cared about most were: Gregory Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson... and you. There were snipers fixed on you three while he talked with Moriarty on the roof, and unless they saw him jump, they would fire. After that, he had to disappear because with Moriarty dead, they would target anyone he was close to in order to gain access to an imaginary code that Moriarty convinced them that Sherlock had.”

John licked his lips, nodding with a defeated sigh. Of course. _I was so stupid. I shouldn't have lost faith in him. I should have believed in him._ “He could have taken me. He could have sent a message, why didn't he-” he was grasping at straws, trying to deny everything, find a flaw in Sherlock's logic so he wouldn't have to face the overwhelming pools of guilt that was already dragging him under.

Mycroft gave him a soft smile, the type you give to an obstinate child when they kept insisting on something that was wrong. “One may find it hard to send a message while they're trying to take on an empire of criminals, all of which are out for his blood. He was protecting you, as well as the other two, because if someone decided to pick up where Moriarty left off, you'd have been the first targets.” He shook his head, sighing in frustration at his younger brother, even as he checked his blood pressure. “He always was so emotional. I warned him not to be so... sentimental, because I know how he would always go too far for the ones he loved. I really do wish he would learn to put some value on his own life one of these days.”

_I wish he wouldn't hand his heart and soul over to people who touch it with dirty hands over and over_.

And it was true. Sherlock was rather sensitive, vulnerable beneath his mask of arrogance and aloofness. Most people defined him by his haughty words, or the cold that seemed to surround him when he walked into a room, but Mycroft knew better. Mycroft had seen a blank slate of a child- innocent and pure- become cold and reserved as the years wore on. He'd watched a brilliant light, filled to the brim with a childlike energy, become aged and wearied. Being detested and labeled a freak and psychopath even if he tried his best to be good did things to him. It made Sherlock afraid of any type of closeness, because he'd lived a life trying and failing to connect with people who never truly loved him.

John stared at a spot near his shoes, eyes unfocused as he took all of this in. Too late. It was all going to be too little, too late.

“Oh,” he said, because it was the only thing he could say.

He felt numb.

Blank.

Empty.

That's all he could feel, and perhaps it was because he couldn't bear to feel anything else but numbness.

Mycroft sighed, trying to gauge whether or not to bring Sherlock into the emergency. On one hand, he might need to be monitored by a team of doctors while he detoxed because the foolish man had been too upset to make a list of everything he'd taken. On the other hand, if he brought Sherlock in he'd be upset when he woke up in a hospital and Sherlock would likely spend his entire stay there panicked and agitated. Sherlock never did like the hospital. “Prepare a bath for him, we need to place him in cold water to lower his fever. If that fails, the hospital will be our only option.”

John rushed to obey, and soon, they were leading Sherlock into the bathroom, one on each side. Johns shoulder burned with the effort, but the only thing he was focused on was making sure Sherlock made it. _Fuck fuck fuck I fucked up_ played on an infinite loop in his mind, with the random bursts of _oh god you can't die on me if you die I don't think I'll recover a second time, don't die don't die don't die, please Sherlock, don't die if you die I swear I'll kill you_. They left Sherlock's pajama bottoms on, but when they removed Sherlock's shirt, John nearly fell to his knees.

A tapestry of the war Sherlock had endured alone stared back at him, pink and white lines crisscrossing on the pale skin of his back and chest.

John heard his own angry words snap back and punch him in the gut. “I hate you. I hate you for the pain you put me through, and for all of the things you've done, and I wish I'd never met you. Sally Donovan was right. I should have stayed away from you. Because maybe then, I won't be feeling like utter shite right now.”With a bitter smile, he realized that now it was supposed to be, _I hate myself. I hate myself for the pain I put you through, and for all the things I've done, and I wish you'd never met me so you could have spared yourself the pain. Sally Donovan was right. I should have stayed away from you. Because maybe then, you won't be hurting so badly right now._

“John,” Mycroft called him, pulling him out his mind, and with a jerky nod, he helped him in easing Sherlock into the tub. Sherlock began pulling away, unconsciously trying to escape from his source of discomfort, but John held him still as Mycroft turned on the shower. “It's for your own good, brother mine, don't fight against it. You're ill.”

In the abyss, Sherlock heard things from a distance. Someone was talking, but he'd forgotten who it was that spoke to him. They were whispering, the words sharp as a sword, cold as the ice that sprinkled over a killer's decaying body, but the sword was broken and the ice had melted. He was left in the abyss, where everything was muffled and quickly dimming. Everything spun around him, and he feared that he would float off into space with the speed of their spinning.

His mouth tasted like sand, nose filled with dust, and his lungs were filled with the Arctic water.

Clawing its way up his chest, tearing it apart from the inside and ripping his throat to shreds of red, a scream forced itself from his lips. A name ingrained into his mind, a cry for help that begged to be heard, a wish that everything was going to be okay. _John!_

Someone that he didn't recognize, from a place that was unknown to him, called his name. Somewhere in the darkness, a warm hand touched Sherlock's face, and water dripped onto his burning skin. At some place lost in time, he dreamed of the past that had haunted him, cruel taunts chasing him even in his dreams. In the darkness, he could hear his inner demons, screaming for his attention.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft yelled as panic shimmered in his eyes as he watched Sherlock begin trembling, hardly conscious but thrashing as Mycroft struggled to keep him from bringing any more harm to himself. “Sherlock, wake up! I need to make sure you're going to be okay, your fever is dangerously high and I need to bring it down. Please, Sherlock, calm down.” With a sigh, he pulled his hand back and slapped Sherlock. Hard.

Sherlock jerked into alertness, eyes wide as he was dragged away from the abyss, and he saw someone.

Someone was _there_. Impossible _._

Hallucination, perceptions despite the absence of stimuli. Neurotransmitters- or was it neurons?- misfiring, chemical imbalance in the brain. Possible volume reduction in dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, common in schizophrenic patients. Schizophrenia often had other symptoms. File away for later. 

It could have been a drug, lysergic acid diethylamide, commonly called LSD. Question was how? How had the drug gotten into his system? Conclusion: improbable. Hallucination was caused by other reason.

The hallucination was talking to him, he realized belatedly. Then the name popped into his sluggish mind.

John. John Watson. His best friend.

“Jo...?” Sherlock asked, trailing off the other half of his name, eyes gaining just a hint of recognition, but remained glazed over and wide with confusion.

His eyes were streaming.

He couldn't stop.

He felt empty.

[ _Chemical reactions. Misfirings in the brain. Not emotions. Emotions are illusions caused by the chemicals in the brain. Emotions were weaknesses, the human flaw, the downfall of man._ ]

Afraid.

[ _Too emotional. Defective. **Human**.]_

He felt like an eternity trapped within a frail and weak human body, like a fire was raging in his veins, his soul trying to find its way back to the sky where it belonged. His skin felt like it wrapped too tight around him, suffocating him.

He was drowning in the hurricane inside of himself.

And he couldn't make it back out.

“Come on, Sherlock. Come back. Come back to me,” he heard the voice from beyond a veil, and it took him a few beats to realize it was still John talking to him, soft and soothing words in his ear. John was in front of Sherlock, sitting in the tub as well, uncaring about the water soaking his clothes as he held onto Sherlock's forearms.

Sherlock choked out a sob, not knowing or understanding why they seemed intent on punishing him. The icy water felt like knives against his skin, and he already felt like he was dying, his stomach cramping and spasming. “I can't. I've gone too deep. I've gone out too deep again and I'm drowning and I'm alone.”

“You're not alone anymore, Sherlock. I'm here, and I'm not leaving your side. Never again,” John whispered, voice tight as he sat there, clothes sticking to his skin. _Please be okay. I don't what I'd do to myself if you weren't._

Mycroft worked on pouring water on Sherlock's entire body, trying not to focus on the way Sherlock looked utterly miserable as he cried, doubling over. _Don't look at me with those eyes, brother._

With a heavy heart, he soaked Sherlock in cold water, looking up when Greg came back, nodding in silent greeting as he continued on with the poem he was in the middle of reciting. Poetry always did calm his brother when they were younger and Mycroft would read to him when he was ill, and it worked even now, as Sherlock curled against the wall of the tub, his lips stuck in a resigned pout.

“...The thing about help, is beside you it stands, but it won't know it's needed, unless you reach out your hand. The thing about love, is that you can't feel its touch, unless you let someone know, that this world is too much.” He faded out into silence, thanking Greg as he handed him a towel and a set of fresh pajamas. Sherlock's fever had lowered to be a more reasonable temperature with Greg and John's help, and Mycroft internally thanked them.

He shared a look with Greg, they'd both done this before, but John hadn't and it showed on his face. It was obvious in the way he fidgeted around as if he wanted to do something but had not the slightest idea what exactly he should do, uncertain and concerned. “John,” Greg spoke as he helped Sherlock stay on his feet. “Why don't you wait outside for a bit? Get changed maybe, yeah?” It wasn't a suggestion, and with a soft blush of his cheeks, John left, knowing that they'd probably be helping Sherlock into the clean clothes he'd brought.

Sherlock clung to Greg when he was lifted to his feet, muttering out a confused, “dad?” as he tried to understand exactly what was going on even as his mind felt like he engulfed by quicksand. Mycroft simply looked up for a moment, not even shocked by the sentiment at this point. If anyone deserved the title, it was certainly Gregory Lestrade, who'd stayed by his baby brother's side through thick and thin all these years.

“'s all right, sunshine. You're all right,” Greg soothed, helping Sherlock into a shirt as they made him decent and dry. “Can you walk?” Sherlock looked at him, eyes glazed over and disoriented, and Greg sighed, turning to Mycroft who nodded in confirmation. Greg quickly hooked an arm underneath Sherlock's knees, carrying him bridal style into the bedroom, placing him onto the bed with the gentleness of a father putting their young child to bed. He ran a hand through his hair, watching as Sherlock's eyes slid shut.

As Sherlock laid in bed, asleep again as his body recovered from what he put it through, John, Greg and Mycroft sat there with him, not really talking. Mycroft was reading a book that he may have found in the living room about chemistry, and Greg was sitting on the chair next to the door, tapping away on his phone. John sighed, just staring at the wall, gnawing on his bottom lip as he sat next to Sherlock on the bed. “I love him,” he whispered brokenly, the tears falling from his eyes now that Sherlock was finally- _finally_ \- calm, asleep beside him. It just _hurt_ so much that it took him so long to admit it, and the first time he said it out loud was with Sherlock beside him suffering from withdrawal.

He hated this. He hated seeing Sherlock like this, but he was so relieved that this time, Sherlock wasn't alone to suffer through withdrawal in a dusty drug den with nobody but other addicts surrounding him. He shut his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall as the tears fell down his face like a waterfall. _Not alone, Sherlock. Not this time. Not ever again._

 


	5. The Sky Is Falling But We Still Have Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally get on with it.

It took Sherlock a week, but finally, he was out of the woods, mind clear at last, his genius mind back to its normal state of functionality. John busied himself with tea, knowing that they had to have their talk now that he'd waited for Sherlock to get better. Greg had finally returned to work today, and Mycroft was busy in capturing Mary who had seemingly disappeared without a trace. He looked at Sherlock, sitting down on his chair, staring at him for a few seconds too long, eyes conveying everything he was too afraid to say. Sherlock looked up, and something in John snapped and crackled as he longed to say that one forbidden word that had always been just barely out of reach, mocking him as it danced on his tongue, begging to be let out from the confines of his heart.

Love.

Unfiltered and absolute love.

Untamable and unconditional love.

Intense and messy love.

Blissful and joyous love.

John loved Sherlock in all the ways he possibly could, and it made his chest ache with the realization, but it was a pain he savored. He would consider it an honor to die with or for Sherlock, the man who'd taken a broken soldier and put him back together again. He loved- was _in love_ \- with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, the sweet and naive boy Mrs. Hudson loved and adored, forcing him to sit down and eat, listening to him talk about his experiments like a mother listening to a son talk about their day at school.

Sherlock, the bumbling and energetic genius that Greg swore to care after and protect from all types of harm, adopting the tone of a long-suffering father when it came to Sherlock.

Sherlock, the hurting teen fearful of the world's cruelty that Mycroft tried to protect from a distance with a watchful eye and an exasperated but slightly fond sigh.

Sherlock, the man behind the machine that John would die to save and keep from harm. The man that John loved. The man that gave John a reason to keep going.

“Sherlock, about everything that I said... I didn't mean it,” John finally worked up the courage to say, and watched as Sherlock squinted, trying to understand him. “I-I had no idea you'd done so much for me, and I should have known better than to doubt you, but- I just can't hide it anymore, so I'm going to say it now. I-If you'd asked, I would have been yours and I would have done anything you wanted me to. I don't want to love someone else that isn't you, and I can't keep pretending I don't need you, because I do.” He stood, pacing, unable to face Sherlock as bared his heart. “I do, I need you,” he whispered, barely audible in the flat that was actually quiet for once. He waited for the rejection he expected was coming. He deserved nothing less, after all.

He tried not to think about those pale long fingers interlaced with his, or soft black curls that would feel like clouds underneath his calloused hand. He tried not tho think about wrapping his arms around the lithe body of the man with eyes that could make you feel like you were being ripped apart and put back together with an intense look. He tried not to imagine what those pink lips would feel like as it pressed gently against his own.

He tried not to think about everything they could have been, if circumstance were just a bit different. If maybe John hadn't ruined everything with Mary and his undeserved words, and if maybe Sherlock didn't have to jump from Bart's. They both crashed against the pavement that day, even if Sherlock was the only one who jumped.

That's when he felt arms wrapping around him, and strong arms pulling him so that a hand rested on the back of his neck, and one was around his back. “John,” Sherlock murmured, voice deep and sounding like melted chocolate to John's ears. “I need you too of course, I'd be lost without my blogger after all.” And John choked back a sob because for Sherlock that was the damn sweetest thing he could have said, and John wrapped his arms around the giant git, grinning as tears fell from his face.

Then, softer still, Sherlock's voice carried over to John's ears. “I'd let you in a long time ago, John. All you had to do was realize the door was open and come in.” Sherlock tilted his chin up, so that he was staring into those brilliant verdigris eyes that haunted John's dreams every night he was away, his blessing and curse, showing him what he could only have in his dreams, those soft eyes that made John feel a little warmer inside. “I always did tell you, you see but you don't observe.” There was nothing but tenderness in his tone, a gentle smile playing on the corner of his lips as he spoke.

John swallowed, trying to speak without his voice breaking. “After everything I'd done-”

Sherlock nodded, before he pressed their lips together, soft and chaste, leaving John's knees feeling weak as he struggled to catch up with what was going on. They broke apart after a moment, and John buried his face into Sherlock's chest, feeling so _unworthy_ but also so _privileged_ to be loved so completely by someone who hardly showed his love at all.

“You said you weren't leaving me again. That I wasn't alone anymore.” John looked up into Sherlock's eyes at this, and he nodded. Sherlock smiled then, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. “Then what are we stalling for? Let's begin this new chapter of our lives together. I daresay we've waited long enough.” John nodded, pressing his lips to Sherlock's once more, soft and sensual, his hands trailing down Sherlock's side before they stopped to rest on his hip.

John took him that night, slow and passionate, no roles for them to play, just skin touching skin, lips meeting soft and reddened lips. They breathed their love confessions in the pants that left them, showed their passion in the interlacing of their hands, and promised a forever in the way their bodies melted together. The forbidden three words finally left their lips before they fell asleep, a soft and gentle “I love you” that they murmured for the night to hear, eyes drifting shut. They fell asleep with the smell of the other enveloping them, arms embracing one another, souls reaching out to each other even in sleep.

[You're not alone anymore. I'm here, and I''ll never let you go.]

[I will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song used for the chapter titles is called The War Outside by Boy Epic. I listened to that, Jeremy by Pearl Jam, and Steven by Jake Miller to bring this story to life. Also, I wrote 8,000+ words in one go, because most of you wanted a second chapter, and I decided to spread it out so it wasn't just 3,000 words then a heap of words and story that jumped from perspective to perspective. Also, I've never been through withdrawal, so I'm not sure if my withdrawal chapter was written well. If not, do give me some tips to improve it, I'd love to know how to make this story better in any way. 
> 
> I hope you liked this story, I worked hard on it. Please, comment what you thought so I can know your opinion on the story, and leave a kudos if it's deserved. Leave constructive criticism as well if you spotted any mistakes!

**Author's Note:**

> If anybody would like to check me out on Tumblr, it's Moriarty-Is-StayinAlive. It's my new Sherlockian blog, pretty new. If anyone has a prompt to give, you could send it there, I'll probably do it.


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